Of Wine and Rhymes
by Adelie P
Summary: Lively nights in Emyn Arnen lead to a new invention, which is immediately put to good use. Also featuring: Aragorn, Arwen, Éomer and Lothíriel. A tongue-in-cheek one-shot written for the February Teitho challenge (the theme was "First") with no connection to my other stories.
It had begun with a minor disagreement at one of their informal suppers in Emyn Arnen. The evening was not in itself particularly noteworthy: the food was so-so, the weather perhaps a little dreary, and Legolas and Gimli were notoriously capable of turning every conversation into an argument, as indeed was his lovely and quarrelsome wife, so their dinner parties had never been dull (and at times disastrous).

That night the topic had been the wine. As always, Faramir had brought out what he hoped was a fitting vintage to complement their meal, but after one or two courteous sips, Legolas frowned and asked for ale instead.

"Of course," said Faramir, swirling the wine in his glass with a small pang of defeat. "My cousin Elphir just sent these bottles from the vineyards of Belfalas. The quality of Dol Amroth's wines is proverbial, but I have long suspected he keeps the truly good stuff to himself." Actually, all wines tasted remarkably similar to Faramir, but it would not do for a Prince to admit that and certainly not for a sophisticated, scholarly one such as himself.

"Don't worry yourself," said Gimli, clapping him on the shoulder. "It's a fine, solid red. Legolas is being contrary, as usual."

"Perhaps Faramir and I simply have more discerning palates," said Legolas.

"Ha! You know as well as I that Faramir would not notice the difference between a white and a red if it were not for the colour," said Gimli.

That was below the belt. Also, probably true.

"And," persisted the dwarf, "this is certainly not the worst he has ever served us."

"It's terrible."

"It's fine."

"It has an acidic aftertaste and its aroma is almost austere," said Legolas with a sniff.

The conversation would probably have derailed into the usual petty yes-no banter at this point if it had not been for Gimli's trump card: "Some impressive vocabulary from the woodland prince who does not even know what a wine press is."

"Wine press?" Legolas said in wonder, the unusual combination of words catching him off-guard. "Why would you wish to press wine? Press into what?"

"You press the grapes, my friend, to release their juice more efficiently. It is quite convenient. Of dwarven design originally." Gimli waxed on about some of the finer mechanics - windlasses, baskets and horizontal discs - while Legolas happily took no notice at all. The elf was not too keen on any large and wooden contraptions (unless, of course, they involved a tree somehow).

"It does not sound convenient to me. Rather unwieldy and unappealing," said Legolas, after Gimli was done detailing the required hardware.

"You do not use a wine press in the Greenwood?" said Faramir, somewhat surprised.

Legolas raised a reluctant eyebrow. "Our wines are all imported. We do not concern ourselves with production."

"Dorwinion supplies Mirkwood with its wines. At least, such I believe was the case when my father was a guest in that realm." Legolas threw a peeved look in Gimli's direction, and the dwarf flashed an easy grin. Then he turned back to Éowyn and Faramir: "It's a fertile land to the far east. The dwarves specifically designed the first press for their use, back in the day, and it spread to Gondor from there. There were some keen oenologists among my ancestors."

"I find that hard to believe," said Legolas. "It was my kin who first colonised that region. Also, I have never heard of viniculture among the dwarves."

"A common misconception."

"Everyone knows it was the Eldar who taught the First Men how to use technology and tools, while your kin retreated into their caves."

"I'm telling you," said Gimli, slightly flushed now. "The wine-press is dwarven technology. And we certainly never shared it with elves."

"I tasted the wine Queen Arwen's party brought from Rivendell. It was delicious, and seemed to be available in great quantities," said Éowyn with a quick, sidelong and all too innocent glance at Faramir.

"I'm sure elves could make wine. They're elves," said Gimli. "Grapes probably turn to wine for them just because they ask politely."

Legolas smiled inscrutably.

"But it was certainly the dwarves who invented the wine press and brought it to Dorwinion," continued Gimli. "And it's thanks to the dwarves that you are here enjoying it in Gondor, in this Fourth Age of Middle Earth."

"The dwarf hath spoken," said Legolas. "It's the usual brand of revisionist history, of course."

"Someone needs to revise those egotistical elvish tales with a few grains of truth."

"It is a most noble invention. Whichever race brought it to Gondor must receive our proper and overdue thanks," said Éowyn, fanning the flames as only the former Lady of the Mead-hall could.

Faramir's subsequent attempts at peace-making went unheeded, and for the remainder of the evening the elf and the dwarf argued their case, with Éowyn occasionally weighing in with one incendiary remark or other, until at last the two friends departed in sullen silence. "You're awful," he told his wife, who had led him to bed with glittering eyes and a half-smile alive with mischief. Éowyn's inherited lust for battle came out in surprising ways sometimes – though not all were equally unpleasant.

oOoOo

When Gimli and Legolas first came to dwell in Ithilien, Faramir and Éowyn did not see much of either of them. The dwarf and the elf were used to wandering in the wild, disappearing off the face of the earth for weeks, and any invitations to supper reached them about a month after they were sent. Yet after some time had passed, the two settled down in the new elven colony and Gimli especially became a regular guest at Emyn Arnen. While the unlikely friends still preferred to spend most of their time together, they discovered there were some activities best enjoyed apart. For example, grumbled Gimli, Legolas had an annoying tendency to sit and stare at a tree for hours on end, stroking it and humming in Sindarin, while forgetting all about the presence of his friend. It had been tolerable enough when these meditations were still regularly interrupted by roaming bands of orcs, but it could go on for hours now that Éowyn and Faramir had so efficiently managed to cleanse their lands. This last statement, uttered after some mugs of ale in the gardens on a warm summer's evening, was accompanied by an undeniably accusatory glare.

Faramir, who was inclined to be curious about everything, and Gimli, who shared this same defect of character, became fast friends during these long nights, and their talk quickly moved from the general to the technical. Gimli's lengthy and detailed explanations of dwarven craftsmanship regularly set Faramir's brain whirring. Not just because it was new knowledge, long lost to Gondor if ever they had held it, but because of its potential. Dwarven techniques were straightforward, earthy, and depended on relatively simple machines. They could be emulated by anybody with the proper tools instead of relying on a trace of Númenorean grace and magic. Surely, with the fading of the Eldar in mind, this was where new strides could be made.

His King's mouth took on a pensive droop at the corners when he first shared some of these thoughts. Faramir was learned enough to understand why Elessar was hesitant, but he could not help himself as intriguing possibilities flashed before his eyes. Something about babies and bathwater, he said to his wife. Éowyn nodded. She was not always interested in the intricate details of his schemes, but she understood pragmatism well enough. And unlike most of the Rohirrim, she had little patience with conservatism and tradition for tradition's sake.

"If the stirrups and saddle were invented now, the Eorlingas would be suspicious of them," she had said when Faramir returned home after a discouraging talk with King Elessar. "In fact, it took us ages to convince our old housekeeper that the spinning wheel was not an instrument of evil."

As time went by, evenings of talk turned into days of experiments. King Elessar soon grudgingly accepted the steady stream of trinkets coming out of Emyn Arnen, and later, when Gimli and his kin began their work on the restoration of the Stone City, from the workshops of Minas Tirith itself. Whenever he saw his Steward pottering about in dirty clothes, with ash and dirt on his brow, the King would sigh and content himself to look the other way.

Éowyn was much more encouraging. The intricate small mechanical clock, all little gears and wheels and whirs, and based on a design of Gimli's father, Glóin, had especially intrigued her. However, Faramir soon had cause to regret bringing home that particular device. It had been hard enough to keep up with his wife before she was able to tell the exact time it took him to do anything (and that did mean anything, during that brief obsessive period. Some of her discoveries had been less than flattering.). Tested well beyond his endurance, he had finally convinced her that the clock would make an excellent gift to her brother whom they had gone to visit that summer. He wondered how Éomer and Lothíriel got on with the blasted thing. No, there would be no clocks in Gondor if Faramir could help it. Not for a good long while. The sundial was quite accurate enough.

Yet this latest project had been so big, so exciting and so personal that he had not even confided in his wife. It was the evening with the wine that had planted the seed in his mind, and he soon realised the implications could be staggering. After some weeks of planning and pondering, he took his notes to Gimli's workshop in Minas Tirith, and asked the dwarf whether he thought he could build a winepress with these specific alterations. Gimli had studied his plans, grinned and said: "Of course. An apt project for a scholar," and then "you do realise the machine will never work this way, right?" Over the next few months, Faramir and Gimli spent many a day fine-tuning the process. ("Another council?" said Éowyn, annoyed as he begged his leave once more, grasping for excuses). But in the end, and after some petty arguments over the appropriate colour of the frame and the forestay, they were successful and all was made ready for the grand debut.

And so his family and friends came to be gathered in Gimli's workshop on a summer's day in Úrimë, blinking to accustom their eyes to the cool dimness of the interior. They spread around the room, gazing at his latest brainchild with excitement (most), trepidation (the King), mild interest (Queen Arwen) and a studied air of boredom (his cousin Lothíriel).

"So, what does this one do?" said Éomer of Rohan, reaching out to the contraption eagerly. Faramir hastily stalled his brother-in-law's hands. It would not be the first time that Éomer would unconsciously wreak havoc there. The warrior king had once swung the door to Faramir's study shut behind him with such force that two inkbottles had toppled over onto the priceless and unique map of Númenor he had been studying. Éomer had been apologetic but a bit uncomprehending at his distress. The island had sunk long ago, after all.

Faramir gritted his teeth in memory. That would not happen again now. After all, he had built this new device partly with that incident in mind.

"It duplicates writing," he explained. "Or any sort of print, as long as a woodcut may be made."

His announcement was greeted by silence and Éomer shook his head in puzzlement. After a moment he asked: "But what is the point of that? Why would you ever need more than one copy, or a handful at most?"

"Just because the Rohirrim have not advanced to the written word yet," drawled Lothíriel, studying her nails.

"You should be grateful," said Éomer to his wife. "If we had, you might have had to study our _grammar_ on top of everything else." The King of Rohan shuddered. Like Éowyn, he seemed to have none too fond memories of his early Sindarin lessons.

"Éomer, you actually also use grammar when you speak a language," remarked Lothíriel with a lazy roll of her eyes.

Éomer reflected on that for a moment and then conceded a surprised "huh".

How the King of Rohan and his sardonic cousin had ever made their marriage work was an interesting study of human relations that Faramir had gotten to observe much more closely than he would have wished. Lothíriel, although outwardly dutiful and poised, had been devastated to exchange her cosmopolitan home at court for "exile in the barbaric northern regions" (as she had apparently called it on the night before her wedding, much to Éowyn's continued chagrin). Since she could not take her feelings out on her father, and was too well bred for open hostility, she had contented herself with mocking her new husband at every opportunity. Éomer had met her snide remarks with a wall of generosity and unfailing good humour, until Lothíriel, tired of her efforts and not completely immune to Éomer's charms, had decided that she might as well be nice to him. Some of the time, anyway. Of late there had grown a certain attachment between them not unlike that between siblings who had learned to live with each other in a state of constant exasperation mingled with reluctant but deep affection, and that was altogether quite the ideal outcome for an arranged marriage such as theirs.

"Well. It seems an awful lot of work to reproduce one document, when you have so many scribes at your disposal," said Éomer now.

"Yes, so thought I when we attempted a similar reproduction process by hand. But with this machine we might make a hundred - two hundred - perfect copies in a single day. No scribe could hope to do even near that," announced Faramir proudly. "Besides," and his voice descended into a mutter, "we will no longer have to deal with their inappropriate glosses in the margins." Last time he had studied the scrolls of Hyarmendacil he had encountered a recipe for 'delicious southern lemon cakes' next to a poem about the conquest of Harad.

"Two hundred!" marvelled Éomer. "Whatever could you possibly need two hundred copies of?"

"Some basic alphabets for the Rohirrim, perhaps?" suggested Lothíriel.

He felt Éowyn starting to bristle beside him. While Éomer and Lothíriel had learned to deal with each other admirably well, relations between the sisters-in-law were a different matter entirely. Éowyn felt a need to defend her brother by default, even when he was being deliberately obtuse to bait his wife (which Faramir suspected was far more often than any of them realised; at least Éomer had half-confessed that such deception was not exactly beneath him one night they had stayed up late drinking together). Éowyn was glaring at Lothíriel now and pursing her lips in a disapproving manner. Eager to nip any argument between them in the bud before it could get properly started, Faramir coughed:

"Ah, there are many possible uses we could consider. Think: knowledge would no longer need to be confined to the libraries of Minas Tirith. With the expansion of Gondor, we could have institutions of learning everywhere. Actually, an alphabet may not be such a bad idea if we are considering the spread of literacy…" Darting a side glance at his wife he hastily prattled on: "I'll show you how it works. See, this is the press stone, and then we use this frame to ensure the paper does not shift. We had to develop a new type of ink, of course. It's a mixture of varnish and soot and …"

He saw his brother-in-law's eyes glaze over, and Éowyn was twiddling her thumbs with a semi-encouraging smile that he recognised well as her 'you have my full support, love, but I really do not see the point of this lecture' way. He decided to cut to the chase.

"Well, you will understand it better once you see it in action. And since we are celebrating the Queen's birthday tomorrow," he bowed to Arwen, "what better use of our new press than to present her with a copy of her favourite poem?"

("It's really her conception day," whispered Lothíriel to her husband. "But one cannot mention that in Gondor, of course." Éomer's puzzled features rearranged themselves into a frown. He had never fully come to terms with Gondor's rules of propriety.)

"A gallant gesture, Faramir," said the Queen in her soft contralto. "I wonder how you came to know my favourite."

"You gave it to Éowyn some months ago, my lady, when you were in the habit of exchanging poetry. She passed it on to me."

His Queen quirked an eyebrow as if she did not quite remember the incident, but she smiled nonetheless.

Faramir took up the beaters to spread the ink evenly, while Gimli nailed the paper to the tympan and carefully rolled it under the platen. (Lately they had found a rhythm together when working together. In early days, Faramir was lucky if Gimli actually let him within four feet of the machinery.) Then he pushed the lever, once, twice, the screw descended with an enthusiastic rasp and the deed was done. He pulled it back so that the paper, now covered in clear and black writing, was revealed.

The gasps of astonishment were most satisfactory.

"Hold," said Faramir. "The ink will need to dry for a minute or two." His family crowded around the device in eager anticipation. Only the King hung back and Faramir settled himself on the bench next to him.

"What do you think, my liege?" said Faramir in a low voice.

"It is impressive, to be sure; the first of advances not even the elves made. The Age of Men has truly begun," mused Elessar.

"You are concerned."

"I have inherited an old prejudice. I am well aware of it."

"Any object can be used for good or evil," said Faramir. It was true enough if one did not consider malevolent magic rings and such. "If we had the means to spread our lore further then perhaps we would never have come so close to the brink of darkness."

"Knowledge in the wrong hands may corrupt swiftlier than any machine of war. I dread to think what could have happened had our entire world known of the Ring of Power," said Elessar.

"Aye," said Faramir. "Yet -forgive me, my liege- ignorance in the wrong hands can be just as dangerous."

Meanwhile, the ink looked to have dried and, as always, Éomer lost the battle against his patience first. Faramir made no move to stop him this time. After all, he could always make more copies.

"Magnificent job, brother. You cannot tell it is an imprint at all. There's not a smudge anywhere." He let his fingers glide over the paper in wonder. "Oh, there is one now." Faramir groaned.

"What poem is it?" asked Legolas with interest.

"It's in the elvish tongue. I forgot all about this," mumbled the King of Rohan. " _Path ro neen, reedo, hordo... Path ro_ … What does that mean again, Wyn?"

"Ho," said Arwen, looking more flustered than Faramir had ever seen her.

"Did you just try to say _pathro nin, ritho, hortho_?" inquired Elessar pleasantly. "Because I'm afraid I must decline."

"What?" said Lothíriel, snatching the paper from her husband's hands. Faramir saw his cousin's eyes widen as they scanned the piece in front of her and a most uncharacteristic blush crept over her cheeks.

"Éowyn," he heard Arwen whisper. "Did you never read that poem?"

His wife looked a little shame-faced as she spoke in a low, rapid voice. "I'm sorry! I never found the time when you first gave it to me, and then I forgot all about it until Faramir mentioned it. I don't read Sindarin as easily as the rest of you, and, well, I didn't think you'd give me one of those in elvish. I mean… I didn't even know you had words for that."

Faramir, fluent in Sindarin since boyhood, by now had a fair idea of what was going on. He dislodged the corner irons, turned the wooden block in his hand and read, in mirror-script, the first line: _ci sui 'lî erin lam nîn._

"Oh," he said, sinking onto the table. Perhaps he should not have left the woodcut to Gimli's cousin. Or at least have glanced at the actual poem before passing it on.

"Lothíriel, what does it say?" demanded Éomer from across the room. His wife ignored him with the ease of long habit, still engrossed in the newly pressed poem.

"I thought your favourite poem was the Lay of Beren and Lúthien, dear," said Elessar who had come up beside him.

"Yes," said Arwen, with just the faintest trace of a blush. "That is, of course. This is just a little something Lindiel and I composed after dinner one night…"

"I never thought Meneldur would be capable of _that_ ," continued his liege, reading over his shoulder. "And what is Almarian meant to be doing to her... Ah. Oh my."

"You wrote this?" Lothíriel looked impressed as Arwen gave a wary nod.

"Wrote what?" asked Éomer again, lunging in another attempt to pluck it out of his wife's hands.

"I want one too," declared Lothíriel to no one in particular, while skilfully keeping the paper out of her husband's reach. "This is very good, Arwen."

"How long did your cousin spend on the carving, Gimli?" Legolas had sauntered over to study the wooden original.

"Some three days, I believe. Why?"

"No reason," said Legolas. "There's just something oddly satisfying about old and timid Marlun spending three days patiently cutting out _matho nin sui mathog i vagol gîn._ "

"Well, if this is the use you imagined, Faramir, I do not believe Man needs fear this machine after all," spoke King Elessar.

In the other corner, Éomer cast a doleful eye on Lothíriel, who was doing an impromptu line-by-line translation for a grinning Éowyn. Arwen stood by, managing to look helpless and amused at the same time, as his cousin kept an admirably straight face even through the more explicit paragraphs.

"I'm not so sure," said Legolas. "Perhaps it is well that we are taking your kin north again for a while, Gimli. First the wine press and now a means to mass-produce dirty rhymes. Quite a legacy for the dwarves."

"And don't you forget it," said Gimli with a proud smile.

oOoOo

 _pathro nin, ritho, hortho = fill me, harder, faster_

 _Ci sui 'lî erin lam nîn =_ _You are like honey on my tongue_

 _matho nin sui mathog i vagol gîn = wield me like you wield your sword_

 _All Sindarin phrases are borrowed from dreamfifi's Sindarin phrasebook._

 _Reviews (both constructive criticism and mindless praise) are welcome, as always._


End file.
